My booster club.
We’re six hours into our day, and so far there has been:
- a screaming semi-toddler
- a screaming-into-my-pillow-so-I-don’t-scream-at-the-baby momma
- a non-napping semi-toddler
- a crying momma
- a semi-toddler throwing food
- a semi-toddler throwing his cup
- a yelling semi-toddler
- an impatient momma
- a giggling semi-toddler
- a melting-hearted momma
- a crawling away quickly semi-toddler
- a chasing momma
- a tattle-taling four-year-old
- a sword-fighting-in-the-house-even-though-that’s-against-the-rules four-year-old
- a pouting over “that’s not the right juice” four-year-old
- a scolding momma
- a “happy to have my friends over” four-year-old
- a fearful daddy (of the momma)
- a meowing cat
- a slamming door or two
- and the worst of all, no International Delight for a much needed cup o’ joe.
But here’s what’s been right.
These girls showed up, not knowing the kind of day that was happening around here.
They commiserated a little, but not too much. They consoled, but just a bit. And they listened, in between the chattering of the littles and the wrangling of the wees.
Lately, whenever I’ve needed a big boost, one of those girls has just shown up. Not because I called. Not because they know. They just happened to be out and about and stopped by.
And I haven’t even realized that I’ve needed a boost.
These chickadees are my booster club.
And after only 30 minutes or so, the troops cleared, lunch was eaten, and lo and behold, the littlest monster fell asleep after giving me the biggest hug that started at my wrists and worked its way up and around my neck. He even left me a pretty good drool patch on my left shoulder that I noticed after tucking him into his crib ever so gently, ever so quietly.
Now I sit and breathe. The birds are happy and noisy outside the loft window and the smell of freshly cut grass is coming in off the breeze (that’s one of my favorite smells, ever). And I think, finally, that today…is…awesome.